


Sunbursts, Marble Halls, and Stubborn Asses

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, MFMM Year of Quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2019-03-31 19:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13981635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: A fic that was meant to be arguing and makeup sex, and ended up being neither. But there are rumours and fluff, and that counts for something.





	Sunbursts, Marble Halls, and Stubborn Asses

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so March's theme is L. M. Montgomery, which means I couldn't stick to one quote fic. It's my inner Canadian, okay? This time it's _“I don’t want sunbursts or marble halls, I just want you.”_

Phryne unlocked the hotel door, looking over her shoulder to Jack; he’d been contemplative on the taxi journey back from lunch, a shuttered sort of stillness that Phryne found intriguing despite herself. Stepping in the suite, she removed her cloche and tossed it aside, fluffing her hair and shrugging off her coat. Jack followed suit, fastidiously hanging both their outerwear on the pegs by the door.

“Alistair seemed determined to talk your ear off at lunch,” Phryne remarked mildly, wandering into the parlour. “What was he saying?”

“Curiosity killed the cat, Miss Fisher,” Jack said, voice dry, picking up the day’s newspaper from the dining table and following her towards the chaise.

“Mmm,” Phryne agreed, slipping off her shoes and insinuating her feet onto Jack’s lap as he took a seat. “But satisfaction brought it back, so answer the question.”

He lowered the paper just enough to cast her an incredulous look, then resumed reading. Phryne slowly massaged her foot against the crook of his thigh, a teasing sort of prod that stood an equal chance of goading him into an answer and goading him into the bed. Either seemed like an agreeable option to Phryne.

She could feel his cock stirring when he moved his hand to her foot, effectively quelling her mischief.

“No fair, Jack,” she pouted. “I’ll have to ask Alistair this evening.”

His hand still on her foot tensed, a tiny little tell.

“He’s coming to the play?”

“And dinner before,” Phryne said, tilting her head slightly. This was not Jack’s normal reaction, and it made her… curious, but cautious. “He and his sister Maggie.”

“Wonderful,” Jack said sardonically, setting the paper aside.

“The Brackwells have been friends of mine for years,” Phryne said, quick to go on the defensive. Alistair was an old friend, yes, but that was well in the past. She’d certainly given no reason for Jack to doubt her, and if his jealous streak was so easily invoked—

“I’m not doubting that,” he said. “I’m not particularly keen to spend another evening being informed that I should enjoy my time as your latest… kept man.”

His cheek twitched at that, a sure sign of irritation; Phryne knew a few people had made comments along those lines, but wasn’t aware Jack had been the recipient of any. Still, that was easily dealt with.

“Oh darling,” she drawled, shifting towards him. “You are a very kept man, and I intend to do quite a lot of keeping.”

His brow furrowed and he stood, the absence of his proximity like a sudden vacuum; Phryne laid her hand against the seat to keep from lurching forward.

“Will you not?”

“Will I not what?”

“Make a joke of this.”

“It was hardly a joke, Jack,” she said automatically, though it had been; that was how they worked—a layer of truth beneath the teasing, of course, but teasing all the same. She crossed her arms. “I have every intention of keeping you.”

“So half of London likes to tell me,” he said. “ _‘Tell me, inspector, where did you purchase that tie? Was it a gift?’_ and _‘The Savoy must be a marvelous indulgence for a man of your income.’_ ”

Phryne rolled her eyes.

“So a few people are being insufferable,” she said. “That’s hardly—”

“There’s insufferable and then there’s…” he seemed to struggle for the right words, raking his hands through his hair in agitation, “ _this_!”

“Don’t you think you’re being a little ridiculous?”

“No, I don’t.”

“It’s just money.”

“It’s not just money.”

“Yes, it is. And with the news coming out of America half of London is terrified they are going to lose theirs, you can’t let their comments bother you. They probably wish they had an honest income instead of living off of others.”

“Believe me, Miss Fisher, they have no interest in my modest income, no matter how honest it is, unless it’s to point out its inadequacies.”

Phryne refrained from rolling her eyes, though it was a near thing.

“Well, I don’t care a fig about their opinions and neither should you. If I want to indulge both of us, I’m free to do so.”

“Of course, Miss Fisher,” he said, his tone the same terse clip he would use to declare her wrong. “I certainly didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

“Well, you did,” Phryne said curtly. Really, the man was being ridiculous. And it wasn’t as if her wealth would have taken him by surprise. “If you had objections to this arrangement, you have had plenty of opportunities to speak up.”

“Would you have listened if I had?” he asked, more resigned than exasperated. “And that’s not even the point.”

“No?” Phryne challenged. “It certainly seems to be the point to me.”

Aggravated and restless, she rose from the chaise and strode towards the bedroom. Once inside she flung open the wardrobe, removing the valise from the floor and tossing it onto the bed.

It was ridiculous, but there was something so satisfying in the grand gestures, the thunk of the valise on the mattress and the colourful tangle of fabrics as she threw article after article of clothing into it; it was childish and resolved nothing, but she did it anyway. It was so like him— except it wasn’t, of course it wasn’t. She would hardly have fallen in love with him if it was, and that was why it cut so deeply. A few rumours and muttered accusations had been enough to send her steadfast inspector off-kilter, and it was _galling_.

Worse than galling, it was _stupid_. And Jack Robinson could be many things, but he was not stupid.

She spun on her heel, ready to have it out with him once more, and discovered him standing just outside the door, concern writ clearly on his usually unreadable face.

“What are you doing?” he asked, taking a hesitant step inside.

“Packing, obviously,” Phryne said, “since my money so clearly offends you.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“Isn’t it?” she said, turning away again.

“Phryne…”

“No, Jack. If your pride is so easily wounded—”

“That’s not what I said!” he shouted; she flinched in surprise, and his voice softened. “It’s not what I said, Phryne.”

She stared into the open wardrobe. “That’s what I heard.”

“It’s not what I meant, then.”

She picked up another dress, regarding it critically before tossing it into the valise as well. This whole thing was ridiculous—a grand gesture that made very little sense, even to her; a disagreement she wasn’t certain either of them understood; the prickle of pride that was so quickly inflamed, on both their parts. Every previous life experience told her to be flippant and light and dismissive, that nothing was worth losing the veneer of frivolity. It wasn’t that she couldn’t be serious, she didn’t find herself as callous as that, but vulnerable was unwelcome. New.

“What did you mean, then?” she asked quietly, her attention on the bedspread.

She felt his soft approach, the extension of his hand towards hers stopping just short of contact. Damn him.

Taking the offered hand, she turned toward him, her attention focused on the pattern of his tie. Maroon, silver geometric pattern, new, her mind categorised, her fingers remembering the slip of silk as she’d tied it that morning. She waited for him to speak.

Jack breathed deeply, stepping closer to press a kiss against her head.

“Alistair…” he began, clearly struggling to find the right words. “Today, at lunch… he took the opportunity to—I didn’t appreciate being advised to marry you while you were still besotted. ‘You can’t keep her loyalty, but you can get something out of the experience,’ was, I believe, his exact reasoning.”

“Not the kindest assessment,” Phryne remarked.

“No.”

Silence.

“You do know it’s untrue?”

She hated the doubt in her voice, the uncertainty it revealed. Her gaze remained fixed on his chest.

“I do.”

“Then why let it bother you?”

“Pride. Fear. An ill-advised urge to defend your honour.”

It was a nakedly honest answer, and she huffed a small laugh.

“My honour is questionable at the best of times,” she said, aiming for levity and mostly hitting it.

“No.”

It was simple and quiet, but unwavering. The edges of his tie blurred as she blinked back tears.

“No, it’s not,” he repeated, “and you know that as well as I do. But in case you are in need of a reminder, Miss Fisher… you are the most loyal, caring person I know. That many of those connections are transient is irrelevant; you are never dishonest about that. And while I can’t say that I _understand_ the impulse, I was well aware of it before I boarded that boat. To hear someone suggest that I exploit this connection for my benefit, that you were exploiting it for your own amusement… after weeks of insinuations, this chafed more than most. I didn’t handle it well.”

“No, you didn’t,” she said. It would be easy to leave it at that, an apology offered and accepted and forgotten entirely, but if there was anything her parents had taught her, it was that an apology by itself did not resolve matters. “But I recognised the impulse.”

She still hadn’t lifted her eyes to his; a woman could lose all reason in those depths, and she can’t afford to risk it. She stepped closer though, squeezing his hand still in hers, wrapping her other arm around his waist.

“The comments won’t cease,” she said. “The aspersions and insinuations… they’ll follow us. And when we return to Melbourne, people will presume that I am using you to gain access to your case files—”

“As if you don’t already have it,” he teased.

“As if I don’t already have it,” she agreed. “But they will insist regardless, because people like to gossip. Until they get bored of it and move on to something else… it’s simply a detail we will have to live with. It’s unfair, but it’s something not even I can control.”

“I wasn’t aware such a thing existed, Miss Fisher.”

“It is shocking, I know,” she said, giving his hand a final squeeze before stepping back and turning to her half-finished packing. “The other valise is under the bed.”

“Pardon?”

“The valise, Jack,” she said, tilting her head just enough to see his face. “It’s beneath the bed.”

“No, I know that, I’m just—”

“Valise, out. Start packing. And while you’re under there, I think I dropped an earring the other night, if you’d have a look?”

“Are you…” there was a question in his voice, and concern, and for the first time Phryne realised that her grand gesture had gone unexplained.

“We can’t control what other people say, Jack, but we can give them less to gossip about. A hotel a little more suited to your honest income, for a start.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Decidedly so,” Phryne said.

“You love The Savoy. I’m not going to ask you to leave.”

“You’re not asking me to leave, I’m offering,” she said. He didn’t start moving, and she turned to him. “Jack, I love luxury. I love enormous beds and silk sheets and delicious meals brought to the room… but I don’t _need_ them. If a smaller hotel room goes some way to making you feel less like a paid-for plaything… none of those things are worth your discomfort.”

“Phryne—”

“No, Jack, my mind is made up.”

“You’re impossible.”

She smiled at him. “Merely a woman who knows what she wants.”

“And that’s not champagne and chandeliers?” he asked teasingly, catching her forearm and giving it the gentlest of tugs, his other hand coming to cup her neck; Phryne’s eyes drifted closed as they both stepped closer, his thumb stroking her wrist as he kissed her.

“Not champagne and chandeliers,” she assured him. “Now, if we were debating Mr Butler there’d be no question—”

He kissed her again and she could feel his smile against her mouth, felt the laughter rumbling in his chest; it was a delightful sensation, and she wanted more of it.

“And my Hispano, of course—a lady must always have access to independent transportation—and I could never bear to give up whiskey, but that’s not the point, and—”

He kept kissing her and she pushed her body against his in retaliation, scraping her nails down his back; he shivered at her forceful touch and pulled them both to the bed, the mattress bouncing from the force of his fall. Phryne was straddling his lap, still laughing; she’d opened her eyes and was watching his face beneath her, his attention now on spilling kisses against her throat. Running her hand through the short hairs at the nape of his neck and into the lusciousness of longer locks at his crown, she pinched her fingers together and pulled his hair to tilt his head back. His small gasp of arousal sent an answering shock through her, and the openness in his eyes… She hesitated, just for a moment, allowing herself to feel the depths of her desires.

“Jack Robinson,” she breathed, teasing his top lip with her tongue, “I don’t want your casefiles. I don’t want champagne. I want you, fears and ill-advised impulses and honest income and all.”

“You have me,” he promised, giving a wry smile. “Fears, ill-advised impulses, meagre income and all.”

She tugged at his hair again, felt his exhalation, kissed him with all the certainty she possessed, laughed as she pushed him back onto the mattress.

Later, utterly exhausted, the valise long pushed onto the floor in their ardour, she trailed a finger against his chest and groaned.

“We have dinner reservations in an hour,” she muttered against his chest. “You can’t make me go.”

He flailed a hand in the general direction of the suite’s telephone.

“Fortunately for us,” he said, “we didn’t follow through on your mad idea to find a new hotel. If you can bear to miss the show tonight—”

“You’re brilliant, Jack,” she said, sitting up and pushing the hair out of her eyes. He was lounging against the pillows, looking rumpled and at ease and more than she could ever imagine wanting; a spike of impulsive wickedness went through her and she smiled. “I rather think I’ll keep you.”


End file.
